hi, i hope you’re well. would you be able to find some more touching words regarding love and nature? your set on bones was beautifully morose and i cannot stop thinking about it. thank you.
“I died, and was born in the spring; I found you, and loved you, again.”
— Mary Oliver, “Hummingbirds”
“Autumn of your uncoiled hair.
Your body moves in my arms
On the verge of sleep;
And it is as though I held
In my arms the bird filled
Evening sky of summer.”
— Kenneth Rexroth, “When We With Sappho”
“Do you remember, my beautiful, / how our home bloomed in orchards of olives and figs, / how the spring slept beside it…
Do you remember, my beautiful, / how the branches fluttered with butterflies, / and every night was a new beginning on earth?”
— Adonis, “Transformations of the Lover”
— BillieHoliday, “I’ll be seeing you”
“There are plenty of legends about women turning into trees but are there any about trees turning into women? Is it odd to say that your lover reminds you of a tree? Well she does, it’s the way her hair fills with wind and sweeps out around her head. Very often I expect her to rustle. She doesn’t rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch. Would I had a hedge of such saplings naked and unadorned.”
— Jeanette Winterson, Written On the Body
“In daylight, every tree became you. / And pretending, I kissed my way through / the forest.”
— Marie Howe, “Gretel, from a sudden clearing”
— Adonis, “Beginnings of the Body, Ends of the Sea”
“But he could never tell her all the rest, how many other living things, birds, nights smelling of grass and rain, sunlit moments of simple peace, also gather in what she is to him.”
— Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow
— Hozier, “Shrike”
“We make love. We make love. We make love under the silent beech tree. So quiet, so quiet […] Only the rain drops, fall on our hair, our skin. Rain drops on the cowslip flower by our feet, without disturbing us.”
— Xiaolu Guo, A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers
“My throat / is a beehive pitched in the river [...] / Look how long this love can hold its breath.”
— Sierra DeMoulder, “Your Love Finds Its Way Back”
— Adonis, “Transformations of the Lover”
“I dreamt we slept in a moss in Donegal
On turf banks under blankets, with our faces
Exposed all night in a wetting drizzle,
Pallid as the dripping sapling birches.
Lorenzo and Jessica in a cold climate.
Diarmuid and Grainne waiting to be found.
Darkly asperged and censed, we were laid out
Like breathing effigies on a raised ground.
And in that dream I dreamt—how like you this?—
Our first night years ago in that hotel
When you came with your deliberate kiss
To raise us towards the lovely and painful
Covenants of flesh; our separateness;
The respite in our dewy dreaming faces.”
— Seamus Heaney, “Glanmore Sonnets”
— John Cage, letter to Merce Cunningham
“Your thighs are appletrees [...] / Your knees / are a southern breeze—”
— William Carlos Williams, “Portrait of a Lady”
“We lie here in the bee filled, ruinous
Orchard of a decayed New England farm,
Summer in our hair, and the smell
Of summer in our twined bodies,
Summer in our mouths, and summer
In the luminous, fragmentary words
Of this dead Greek woman.
Stop reading. Lean back. Give me your mouth.
Your grace is as beautiful as sleep.
You move against me like a wave
That moves in sleep.
Your body spreads across my brain
Like a bird filled summer.”
— Kenneth Rexroth, “When We With Sappho”
— Ali Smith, Girl Meets Boy
“I should like to creep
Through the long brown grasses
That are your lashes;
I should like to poise
On the very brink
Of leaf-brown pools
That are your shadowed eyes;
I should like to cleave
Without sound,
Their gleaming waters,
their unrippled waters,
I should like to sink down
And down
And down
And deeply down.”
— Angelina Weld Grimké, “A Mona Lisa”
— A. Poulin Jr., “Cave Dwellers”
“What I mean is—when I see your face / in the dusk I understand the desire of the rain. Each time / you happen to me all over again.”
— Aleda Shirley, “A Dwelling in the Evening Air”
“Between your touch / and my cry / between the sea / and the dream of the sea.”
— Anne Michaels, “Sea of Lanterns”
— Robery Creeley, “The Rain”
“In a forest of stars and boughs, here is your face. In the garden, in the shipwreck, in sacred stones, in figs and roses. Through long nights of walking, what does not sing for us?”
— Anne Michaels, The Winter Vault
“nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands.”
— E.E. Cummings, “somewhere i have never traveled gladly beyond”
“I cannot write about Damascus, without the jasmine climbing on my fingers. / I cannot say Her name, without my mouth getting overcrowded with apricot juice, blackberries and quince.”
— Nizar Qabbani, “A Green Lantern at Damascus’ Door”
— Hozier, “Shrike”
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How Nimue and Lancelot connect and assume their Lake identities.
It's always been there vegetating in my brain, but this is how it could work....Nimue is found by Rugen's people and carried to him. He's sees her wounds, knows she's fey, she becomes his Lady of the Lake....his BOUDICCA. She also doesn't remember who she is.
Lancelot finds his way there (without Squirrel) he's wounded...he knows who she is, the fey queen, but does not know her real name. His wounds and guilt are maddening....He has always had someone else to decide things for him....and it's comforting when she does. He has no ego.All the failed times that she has tried to heal someone keeps her from trying on him, until it becomes impossible for her to ignore.
She heals him and he becomes hers...the Lady of the Lake now has Lancelot du lac as her personal guard.
Rugen is no fool and tries to expel Lancelot, but not before he and Nimue make a plan to free her. He does and Rugen goes after them...their first night alone will be in a cave, but nothing will happen........(add to this Sister Iris and the Trinity Guard are looking for him)
Source: Diarmuid and Grainne. :The Weeping Monk like Diarmuid carried two swords, one for killing and one for wounding...their names were The Great Fury and the Little Fury. Diarmuid and Grainne is a source for the Lancelot and Guenivere tale. But this IS NOT CAMELOT
Nimue is the daughter of a shadow lord and Lancelot must be since they parallel each other, and he survives without his tree. This is why Gawain is so surprised to see him, to realize he was an ash folk. When all the ash trees were cut down in the seventh century (this is real history), the ash folk died. Lancelot is an abused relic from another time.
And here’s little botanical input....ash trees come in male and female. Lancelot could save the fey by mating with the fey queen at Imbolc, but if he does not find an ash female to mate with...his people could very well cease to exist.
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